


Brains and Brawn

by eyemeohmy



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, Sexuality, Silly, Violence, etc etc etc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 20:26:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyemeohmy/pseuds/eyemeohmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A(n ongoing) collection of Spinister/Krok related ficlets and drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, one day I was lying in bed listening to my sad records and crying into my pillow over the lack of Spinister/Krok in this world. I decided to remedy this by taking on a series of prompt challenges to write Spin/Krok fics to. Some are responses to these prompts, and some are just ficlets I wrote for friends.
> 
> Ficlets are all over the place; headcanon, canon; gen, romance; fluff, violence, et cetera.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy.

WARNINGS: Mild to moderate gore. Slashy or gen, you can decide.

\---

The plan had been going swimmingly well... up until now.

Krok cursed as he was forced to stop, unable to ignore the biting ache in his calf. He huffed as he fell against a tree, tired optics falling to his wounded leg. A deep gash running the length from knee to ankle, bleeding oil and energon. He glanced back, immediately noticing the trail he'd left behind. Not that it mattered - his pursuers didn't need the trail to find the Decepticon.

Krok cursed and punched the tree. He limped a few steps before breaking into another sprint. Every minute movement of his wounded leg sent shocks of pain up into his thigh. He stumbled clumsily as he had been the past five minutes; but so far, so good. He was still alive, at least.

Though Krok imagined not for very long, with the way things were going and the shouts of the Autobots growing closer.

Krok forced off his pain receptors, but that didn't make running any easier. He pushed his way through tall, blue sawgrass, its thorns scratching and leaving tiny grooves in his armor. Whether it was the foliage or his leg, Krok grunted and tripped, rolling along fresh mud, back out into the open.

The Decepticon sat up with a grumble, immediately checking his leg; he was losing more and more energon. They hit a fuel pump; running only made the bleeding faster. Krok didn't have time to think as he could hear his pursuers cutting through the sawgrass. With a pained grunt, he pushed himself back to his feet, swayed, and nearly fell again; managed to catch balance, limp, then resume fleeing.

The ship wasn't much farther, fortunately. Krok could see it over canopies of the approaching patch of jungle. He tried to contact the others, but these thick trees were blocking and distorting his transmissions. Everything he sent and received came out warbled static with only a few coherent words punching through the white noise. But Krok received confirmation from each of his teammates to know they were still alive.

That was six minutes ago, however.

Krok kept his mind focused. He was over-exerting himself, he knew, and exhaustion was kicking in, but he had no choice. He was unarmed, bleeding, too tired to fight; running was all he had left. God, and he would berate himself later for his failure, for a wound he would tell himself, despite disagreements from a few of his comrades, was easily avoidable.

Now was not the time, however. Krok would lecture himself and nurse his wounded leg and pride once back on the ship.

Though Krok knew, of course, the moment he stepped out into open space with nothing but a hundred feet of dirt and grass between him and the jungle, his enemies had him at his most vulnerable. He expected the first few, clear shots, dodging them, lamenting the loss of his gun. But with his wound and his fatigue, Krok knew it was inevitable--

Ah. Fifth time was the charm. Krok snarled as one shot struck his good leg. Go fucking figure. He fell forward, face first into the mud. No time to sulk or recuperate; he ignored the warning sirens going off in his head, attempted to push himself back on his feet. When that attempt failed, Krok reluctantly looked back to assess the damage.

Leg still wounded and bleeding? Check. Second leg missing a huge chunk out of his foot? Check.

"You underestimated us, genericon."

Krok flipped onto his rear, feeling the first droplet of rain hit him like a bullet between his wide optics. He looked up as the three Autobots approached him, their guns cocked, smug grins on their faces.

"You run pretty fast, coward," the blue Autobot sneered.

The green 'bot added with a chortle, "But not fast enough."

"Poor thing," the yellow Autobot tsked in mock sympathy. The rain was picking up quickly, and now the trio of Autobots were closing in.

"I suppose we should put him out of his misery," Blue suggested, his comrades snickering menacingly.

Krok pushed and scooted along the ground, and he realized, even without the taunting laughter of his enemies, just how pathetic he looked. Like some poor, scared animal high off adrenaline. But the adrenaline was wearing thin now, and had been the reason Krok managed to escape in the first place.

The Autobots stopped a few feet before the fallen Decepticon. "Got any last words?" Green asked, and three guns were aimed at Krok's head.

"Go to Hell," Krok answered, voice strained. "Not the best choice of last words, but the sentiment remains."

The three chuckled. "Suit yourself."

Krok was about to switch off his optics, take the death with quiet dignity-- Suddenly, there was a blur of magenta and yellow, followed by a loud, surprised gasp. The loud explosive crack of a gun going off--

Krok's optics powered back online, just in time to watch the Autobots scatter in shock. The blast left a trajectory of smoke in its wake, and warm, fresh energon trickled from a grazed cut along his cheek. Blue and Green were now firing and yelling at a new target, but Krok could not see between them. Yet whatever it was they were shooting must have been powerful, given the gut-wrenching, painful shrieks from its victim.

The rain and steam rising from off the ground clouded Krok's vision. What the Hell was going on? Blue yelled at Green and the two split apart, just as their Yellow comrade was thrown between them, hitting the ground and skidding up to Krok's side. The Decepticon winced at the remains of the Autobot, now just a torso and part of a mangled head.

"Back up's all most here!"

"Frag, watch--!"

Green went down with a howl, a blast ripping through his chest. He was dead before he hit the ground. It was just Blue now, and Krok could see he was scared. He backed away from the rolling clouds of fog and steam, the rain pelting down hard now. Krok quickly checked the Autobot corpse for any sort of weapon.

A loud thunderclap was followed with a pained, irritated growl. Blue lowered his smoking gun, cackling. "Got you, you crazy glitch!" he jeered.

The Autobot's victory was short lived. Whether it was incredible confidence or sheer stupidity, the unarmed force charged. Another shot fired, but missing; Blue cursed and went to flee--

Krok watched as the mysterious attacker pounced on the Autobot, tackling him around the waist. They went crashing and rolling along the ground, mimicking the groans of the storm above. Blue managed to shove his assailant off, flinging mud in its face. This gave him just a small window of opportunity, but as he scooted away, getting onto one knee--

A hand the size of his entire head shot up from the ground and grabbed him by the face, thick fingers curling around the sides of his helm. Blue gasped before was yanked back down, flipped onto his back, and pinned beneath his attacker. The hand remained clasped around the Autobot's face, and his cry for either mercy or a swift death to the bastard holding him down was cut short as his head was crushed easily like a melon. The metal and armor and steal made a disgusting, loud squelching noise, bits of circuitry and processer-matter spraying the ground nearly over two feet.

Krok sat there, exventing loudly, wide-eyed and still very confused. As the clouds of mist parted and his optics adjusted to the rain--

"Spinister?"

Spinister took a moment to study all the energon and viscera coating his hand and dripping down his arm. He gave a small, disappointed grunt and stood, carelessly shaking some of the mess off. He looked back at his fallen comrade, and Krok could see that cold, feral rage in his dark optics. Spinister stood, collected the nearest discarded gun, the sound of a crunch-splat as he crushed an optic under foot.

Krok watched Spinister approach him, saying nothing. He stopped in front of him, turned, cocked the gun in his hand. A second later, and three more Autobots emerged from the sawgrass and fog. They came to a sudden halt, immediately spotting the corpses of their deceased comrades. Their horrified gazes turned on Spinister, shielding the Decepticon on the ground, gun pointed, splattered and covered in gore.

The Autobots looked to one another. "We outnumber you, Decepticon," their leader hissed, bravely taking a step forward. Three guns turned on one.

"Get out of here," Krok scowled. He kicked at the back of Spinister's leg with his busted foot. "Go!"

Spinister said nothing, firm, beastly gaze locked with the Autobots'. They were at a standstill, silently plotting. They would not underestimate this Decepticon as their former comrades had.

It was a tense, uneasy moment that felt like an eternity. No one made the first move. Rain pounded the mud, winds picking up to roar through nearby trees. The tension was palpable and suffocating.

Krok went to order Spinister to retreat again, but the sudden howl from above caught everyone's attention. The ground began to rumble. Krok's head snapped back, the _Weak Anthropic Principle_ moving above their heads.

Spinister took this moment to fire at the Autobots. However, one had remained vigil, and returned fire, shoving his comrades aside. He took the hit, his arm flying from its socket; Krok angrily shoved his heel into Spinister's lower back, pushing him into the mud, the laser blast ripping through the air mere seconds where he once stood.

Krok mistook the photon blast from the ship as lightning at first. It struck the ground in front of the Autobots. Then a second blast, then another and another and another, and the Autobots cursed, forced to retreat.

_Haha! I am become Death, destr--_

_Shut up!_

Krok and Spinister looked up at the ship, Misfire then Crankcase's voices blaring from the overcom.

_Are you two still alive? You got two kliks to get your afts on board or we're leavin' you to the Autobots._

Krok exvented. For a moment, he was suspended in disbelief. After all that, had he just... survived? He stirred when Spinister suddenly climbed back to his feet, coated in mud, the rain quickly taking to cleaning it off. He slowly turned, staring down at his leader.

With a chuff: " _Now_ who's the stupid idiot?"

Krok blinked. The shock turned into annoyance. " _You_!" he snapped. "I told you to retreat!"

"I wouldn't leave you here," Spinister scoffed. "Dead _or_ alive. Would prefer alive, though. I like living you better than dead you. But if you were dead, we'd make good use of your parts, yanno."

_The chronometer is ticking, lovebirds!_

Krok scowled. He wasn't for unnecessary violence, but boy would he love to slug Misfire in the face right now. Suddenly, Spinister was bending down, scooping him up in his arms; Krok instinctively latched on.

"You took some mighty stupid risks. Not that this is a surprise or anything."

Spinister shrugged. "Autobots rub me the wrong way. 'Specially _those_ rats."

Krok tilted his head. "They were no different from the standard, run of the mill Autobots."

"Meh."

The two were on board the ship a minute later. Crankcase and Flywheels were waiting for them.

"I believe that was _three_ kliks," Krok teased, raising three fingers. Spinister still held him in his arms. "Maybe three and a half."

"You woulda done the same," Flywheels snorted. "Besides, Primus does not approve of abandoning your comrades."

Crankcase gave a loud, suffering sigh.

Flywheels approached the two, holding out his hands. "Here," he offered, reaching for Krok, "let me--"

Spinister jerked aside, pulling Krok flush against him. Both Krok and Flywheels were surprised. Spinister just glared warning at the visored mech.

Flywheels slowly stepped back, hands raised. "Sorry," he apologized, "just trying to do a good de--"

"Oh, _shut up_ ," Crankcase interjected angrily. He shoved Flywheels off and turned back to his comrades. "Next time, we're leavin' you to the wolves," he sneered before following his sulking, whining friend, leaving the two alone.

Krok inhaled deeply, optics glowing. "It's good to be home."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> headstomp asked you: Spin waking Krok up by nuzzling into the crook of his neck and chuffing…
> 
> And I said, WHY NOT?

It had been a very, very long day.

A breach in the ship’s hull that nearly sucked Fulcrum out into dead space, a patch-up job that nearly sent Spinister into dead space; find planet rich with resources, pillage only five minutes before giant monsters made out of the local fauna emerge and attack, nearly eating Misfire in the process; return to ship with minimal of injuries but lack of supplies, a few headaches, and lots of wounded pride; take off as quickly as possible, plant-monster attaches to ship, punches a hole in the hull; the atmosphere takes care of the beast, but not before threatening to take Fulcrum with it; flee to safety, repair new hole, deal with crew whining about lack of sufficient energon. The cherry on top? Crankcase arguing with Grimlock enough for the Autobot to wig out, destroy half the bridge, and throw Misfire and Crankcase around like rag dolls.

Krok was very, very tired. The position of captain and commander was a demanding role, and while he usually slipped right into it with ease, some days he just wished he was a grunt and let someone else take control of things. Yet no one on this ship was qualified for the position - _remotely_ qualified, in fact. Crankcase might be, but Krok was pretty sure his first rule of order would be to jettison fifty percent of the crew out into space.

On the positive side, they did have enough energon to last them a few more days, and Spinister had already picked up another planet they could raid, quickly setting automatic course. Once Krok made sure everyone was settled and alive and not secretly plotting each others’ demises, he retired to his quarters, giving Crankcase the conn. Which was pointless since the ship was on auto-pilot, but whatever.

The moment he arrived in his quarters, Krok collapsed onto his bed and shut down into stasis almost immediately. Only to wake a minute later, fretting if he left the photon laser core online to drain power from the ship’s emergency reserves. No - no, he turned it off. Yeah, he did. Okay. Okay, he could recharge. And so Krok did, optics powering down and system switching into sleep mode.

… Did he leave the laser core on— No, no, he didn’t. It’s cool.

Usually Krok would set an alarm on his chronometer to wake him once every hour for the next six hours. Just to check if everyone was still in one piece and the ship wasn’t heading into a nearby moon due to some malfunction. But - either due to exhaustion or just not caring, Krok switched his alarm off.

Peace and quiet and good recharge.

Well.

For the most part.

Krok stirred in his sleep at the sudden warm, tickling sensation in the crook of his neck. He settled a moment later - but there it was again. His audiols caught a strange noise nearby his head. Something deep but soft. Like breathing, almost. Still, Krok chose to ignore it - then it happened again. That noise, that warmth, that tickle.

Krok grumbled something, still mostly asleep. He tried rolling over, but there was weight pressed against him pinning him down. Grumbling again, he powered up his optics; a blur of magenta before they adjusted. But it all soon became clear, even in its incoherence, who this was. More awake now, Krok’s electromagnetic field instantly registered the person lying beside him.

Spinister chuffed into Krok’s neck again, his chest pushing against his leader.

Then: “Awake?”

“No,” Krok grunted, still half-asleep but growing more and more annoyed. He tried to push the spooning Decepticon from off him, but the big lug remained attached to his side like a space barnacle.

Spinister hummed into the side of Krok’s throat. “Wake up.”

“Nooo…” Krok scowled weakly. One hand groped around blindly before pressing against Spinister’s face. “Gooo…” He tried to push the bastard away, but to no avail. One reason being he was too tired to actually put forth any effort. The other, Spinister just being stubborn.

“Waaaake up,” Spinister crooned. One arm crossed over Krok’s chest, another slipping beneath him. “Waaaaaake uuuuuuup.” He pulled his commander flush against him, squeezing a little more.

“No!” Krok whined, and vaguely realized just how pathetic and childish he sounded somewhere in the back of his exhausted CPU. But the pressure around him did wake him a little; he wiggled, arms trapped beneath a stronger, more alert pair.

Spinister nuzzled his maskplate against the back of Krok’s head. “Wakey wakey starshine~”

Krok hissed something before his body slowly adjusted to the pressure and went limp.

Spinister narrowed his optics. He lowered his face, pressed it to one audiol, and chuffed. Loudly. Krok jumped and writhed and Spinister quickly hugged him, calming him down. But by the sudden burst from Krok’s EM field, he knew he was finally, completely awake.

Krok glowered tiredly at the wall. Before he could get angry, he realized… “How long have I been out?” he grumbled.

“Ten groons.”

Krok’s optics nearly popped from his cranial chamber. “Ten groons!?” he squawked, and Spinister relaxed his embrace so Krok could jolt to a sit. “Ten— Why didn’t anyone—”

“I told them not to,” Spinister purred, his optics creasing in lieu of a gentle smile, “or I would shoot them between the eyes.”

Krok groaned. “Primus, no, this is bad…” He scrubbed his face in his hands, groaning again. “I need to. We need to. I.” He went to crawl off the slab, but then Spinister’s arms were around his waist, yanking him back. With an oomph, he fell, crashing into Spinister’s chest, now face to face. “What are you doing?”

“Let’s take a nap together.”

Krok stared a solid, quiet minute. “… You just insisted on waking me up, and now you want to nap?”

“I haven’t napped,” Spinister replied. “I want to nap. You can nap with me.” He nuzzled his maskplate to Krok’s.

“Then what was the point of waking me up?” Krok demanded, but then scowled. He shook his head. Why was he even asking? This was _Spinister_. Nonetheless, it didn’t look like he was getting out of this body-lock anytime soon. So, Krok sighed, optics dimming. “Who took your shift?”

“Misfire.”

Well, not the first person Krok would leave in charge out of all the others, but… Then Spinister was chuffing into his neck again, slowly slipping into recharge. Krok sighed. He bumped his forehead gently against his comrade’s before settling in and going back to sleep.

If anyone wanted to argue with Krok about sleeping in, they could take their complaints up with Spinister.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence, mild gore; mostly violence.

Over time, memories eventually faded, and Spinister could only recollect a handful of the things he'd done in his lifetime. That, and his medical knowledge and expertise, which came more with programming than a skill learned and honed. He'd grown as a medic with experience, however, but very rarely could he recall the name of one single patient. Useless memories, things that served no purpose or form of entertainment were a waste of space. He was happy to forget most things, without even realizing he'd forgotten them.

The faces of all those who wronged him, and all those who fought and lost to him, formed one giant, colorful, morbid collage of nigh-indistinguishable faces and features. It was a horrifying congealed blob of victims, but to Spinister, each and every face strung and stitched and stretched and mutilated in this corner of his mind he recognized. Mostly what they did wrong, but never the details. Just how he killed them, and how he made them pay.

There was always room for more, and Spinister had reserved spaces for a number of those he swore he'd find, and drag to Hell if need be. Those were few and far in between, as most of those who personally affronted Spinister usually did not survive and became another name and number; if lucky, they would earn their place as perhaps a frowning mouthful of blood or one enlarged, frightened optic pleading for mercy on the collage.

But those who occupied a space in Spinister's memories, coherent and clear and fresh as the day they offended him, would certainly earn their place soon enough.

One such mech on the list was an Autobot by the name of Hardhammer. His strength and power on the battlefield made up for his atrocious name. He'd gone one-on-one with Spinister, and he won. He won by a mile. It was utterly embarrassing for the Decepticon. This, however, was not what necessarily earned Hardhammer a place in Spinister's own list of transgressors.

Because the Autobot did not finish him off. Spinister laid there, a paralyzed, bleeding, wounded mess, and the Autobot just... smiled. A wicked, ugly, smug little thing. Spinister wanted nothing more but to rip it off his face and shove it down his mouth hole. Hardhammer then knelt beside his defeated opponent, pet him condescendingly on the cheek. Told Spinister he put up a noble fight, for someone so weak and below him; Hardhammer gave Spinister's cheek another hard slap and then bent forward, spitting a wad of coolant right between his optics. The Autobot left, and it would be four hours before anyone would find Spinister. A week before he was completely healed and repaired.

Nearly three centuries worth of anger and a grudge that would never pass until he had Hardhammer broken and bleeding under his feet. Three centuries and that anger had quieted but it never disappeared. Three centuries and Spinister had heard neither hide nor hair of Hardhammer.

Three centuries, four months, two weeks, three days until Spinister was suddenly face to face with Hardhammer once again, and completely by accident.

It'd been a brief moment; they ran into one another as both the Decepticons and Autobots stationed on the planet fled to their ships. The planet's single volcano was reactivated during an explosion, setting off a chain reaction. Lava gushed and poured and was quickly consuming the small planet, turning everything to nothing. The lava was moving too fast, and everyone was forced to call a stalemate and leave before they'd be buried and entombed in the magma-hot liquid for eternity.

All but two of the Scavengers had managed to scramble back on board the _Weak Anthropic Principle_. Krok had been running ahead of Spinister. They were lucky they got back to the ship so fast, but they had a window of only five minutes to get the Hell off the ground. The earth rumbled and shook, the volcano belching another explosive brew of lava. The flow increased, and five minutes turned to three.

Krok told the others to pay no mind to the Autobots crossing paths with them. They were not concerned with or interested in fighting. There was no need to waste the time or ammo. Spinister had obeyed, mostly driven by his desire to survive succeeding over his desire to fight. However, Krok hadn't immediately noticed the sudden lack of an EM field behind him, one he reached back every few seconds to make sure was still close. He came to a halt and turned, half-expected to find Spinister had tripped, the dumb oaf.

Instead, Spinister was staring down an Autobot, ten feet of empty, tense space away from him. Krok immediately assumed something had happened between them. And by the sneer stretching across the large Autobot's face, so did he.

"Spinister!" Krok shouted over the roar of the raging volcano. "Come on! We have to--"

The noise that ripped from Spinister's throat was frightening, and for a moment, Krok was more uneasy about his companion than he was the lava. It was such an angry, terrible noise, and it echoed in the skies turning to clouds of ash; Spinister had suddenly charged at the Autobot, who remained in place. Unafraid. Challenging, mocking.

Hardhammer whipped out his gun and fired. Spinister, consumed with fury, was lucky Krok tackled him to the ground before the shot could take him out. A blast to the chest wouldn't have stopped Spinister, even if he was half-dead. Hardhammer had to pay - he was not going to lose to him a second time.

Unfortunately, that was the case.

"Come on! We need to get back to the ship!" Krok yelled, trying to tug his shivering, enraged comrade back to his feet.

"So long, Spin!" Hardhammer cackled and bolted off.

Krok grunted as one hard shove to the chest sent him flying and tumbling along the ground. Spinister was back on his feet, making a run for the fleeing Autobot. So close, so close, but with a loud crack, a burning tree suddenly collapsed between him and his prey. Lava blanketed the tree, and Spinister was seriously debating trudging through and over it. It would be worth the risk, if it meant Hardhammer's dying spark crushed in his hand.

"The Hell are you two doing!?" Crankcase snarled from the open shuttle bay door. "Get on the fraggin' ship!"

"Something's wrong with Spinister!" Krok shouted back.

Crankcase frowned. "When isn't there?" he snapped. He growled and added, "You got one klik or we're leavin' without you guys! And this time I mean it!"

Krok nodded. That was fair. He looked back to Spinister, who was just about to climb over the tree and through the flames, where the lava was the thinnest. Krok charged, moving fast; grabbed Spinister by an arm and yanked him back. Both Decepticons fell and rolled into a ball, seconds short before lava overtook the tree completely.

Krok sat up, still squeezing one of Spinister's arms. "We have to go!" he shouted, and a sudden wind shrieked above their heads, carrying clotted ashes. "Come o--"

Spinister snarled and yanked his arm free. Before he could run, Krok quickly thrust out a leg, tripping him. The larger Decepticon fell to the ground like a bag of bricks, helm striking and bouncing off a rock. He laid there, groaning, but still semi-conscious, his once furious red optics dim.

The ship was starting to lift from the ground. Thirty seconds. Krok leaped into action. He sprang to his feet, hauled Spinister up with a supportive arm wrapped around his back. Though he had no alt mode, the modifications to his body made him stronger and faster than most Decepticons. It wasn't easy getting the half-conscious bastard back on board, but he did it, and he did it with thirty seconds to spare.

Krok dropped Spinister on the ground once inside. Crankcase, waiting, punched a button, closing the bay doors.

_Krok and Spin on board? Or are we--_

"Go!" Krok shouted up at the intercom. " _Go_!"

_Gone!_

Focusing all power to the engines, the boost quickly got the W.A.P off the ground and in the air in less than a minute. Not a second too soon, lava pouring in waves beneath them. As the ship sped off to safety, the doors finally closed completely and Krok grunted as he fell against the wall.

Crankcase helped him stand upright. He was covered in soot and ash and various, minor cuts and dents, just like the others. "What the Hell was his deal?" Crankcase growled, looking to Spinister still lying quiet on the ground.

"He... Something about that Autobot," Krok breathed, heavily, wiping debris from his optics. "I don't..."

"Well, let him cool down here for a while," Crankcase snorted. He nodded to the door leading back inside the ship. "Let's go. Gonna take a groon in the washracks to get all the fraggin' gunk out of my seams."

Krok nodded, faintly. "Right." He looked back at Spinister, nonetheless. He didn't like leaving his comrade here, but... Spinister's injuries were not life threatening. He would be okay. He looked back to Crankcase. "Have Flywheels come down here and keep an eye on him." But he all ready comm'd the Decepticon before Crankcase could agree, quickly ordering him to the shuttle bay.

Krok groaned and stood up straight. He rubbed the dent on his chest, where Spinister had shoved him earlier. Crankcase was already out the door, fussing and picking at all the dirt on his chassis. Krok was about to join him--

The sudden stirring and small noise from the Decepticon stretched on the ground immediately caught Krok's attention. Spinister was twitching minutely; he turned on his side, carefully, slowly pulling his legs up to his chest, head tucking between his shoulders. Now that he was awake, Krok couldn't just leave him.

Krok headed over. "Sorry," he said. He squatted behind Spinister. "You left me no choice."

Spinister remained quiet and still two, four, six seconds. "Ship?"

Krok nodded. "We're on the ship, yes. And we should have just cleared Chaud's atmosphere, if my calculations are correct."

"Hard... Hardhammer..."

Krok blinked. That must have been the Autobot's name. He was right assuming the two had known each other. "You need to rest," he replied, instead. Placed a gentle but firm hand on Spinister's shoulder. "Can you stand? I'll take you to the medba--"

Spinister flipped over, shooting out a hand. Krok jumped, his shock quickly replaced with a sudden burst of pain. Spinister was squeezing him by the wrist, slowly crushing the metal and plating. "Let g--"

"Stop the ship!" Spinister snarled, and his optics were wild and furious. "Stop it and turn back _now_!"

Krok tried to yank himself free. "No! We can't! We are not going to--"

A second later, and Krok's was thrown across the room, back slamming into the wall, leaving behind an impressive dent. He grumbled as he wobbled to a stand, grabbing the back of his sore, throbbing head. Spinister was heading to the control panel, ready to open the bay doors, fueled more and more by mindless rage--

Krok clumsily threw himself forward; his elbow slammed into Spinister's shoulder, shoving the Decepticon aside. He fell back, nearly on his rear, before latching onto the control panel. Fatigued optics raised to Spinister, who stood before him, haunched forward, arms hanging, fingers twitching into half-fists, and giving Krok a look that, if anymore potent, would kill.

"I don't know what the Hell is going on or what happened between you and that Autobot," Krok spat, his knees shaking as he slowly stood again, "but you need to calm down. We are _not_ turning around. We are _not_ intercepting the Autobots. We are in no condition to fight, especially when their ship can easily take us down with one hard blast to the stern."

Spinister still said nothing, just glared, his optics growing brighter by the second.

"Now I suggest you _stand down_ \--"

Of course Krok didn't get to finish. Why did he even bother trying? Because Spinister was charging at him again, his adrenaline increasing his speed despite his wounds. Krok managed to dodge him, but a sharp turn and suddenly Spinister's fist collided with his jaw. The smaller Decepticon fell back against the wall; he looked up, rolled away just as a fist was planted into the dented metal, tearing a hole clean through it.

As Spinister tried to free himself, Krok stood, swayed, then jumped behind him. Spinister gagged as he was suddenly put into a headlock, one arm bearing down against his throat, a second hand taking him by the wrist and forcing it behind his back.

Krok managed to wrestle the struggling Decepticon down a few inches, until he was almost on his knees. Spinister flailed a hand back, swatting his head and face. Krok remained calm, however, opening a private channel to Crankcase. He was going to order his crewmate to quickly fetch a sedative from the medbay, bring it down here fa--

Krok forced himself to focus and concentrate as Spinister suddenly threw his entire weight back against his body. He shoved his heels hard into the floor, refusing to budge, even as Spinister continued thrusting his weight against him. Smaller body, but still immensely strong; Krok was halfway through his message when one foot slipped. Though merely an inch, it was enough leeway for Spinister to take advantage.

With that swift moment of weakness, Spinister threw back his weight again. Krok tumbled over, taking Spinister with him, the larger body slamming on top of him. Spinister didn't stay down long, however; he flipped onto hands and knees, grabbing the smaller Decepticon by the throat. Krok choked as fingers dug into pumps and fuel lines; the massive punch to his chest knocked the wind out of him, optics widening.

Another blow to the chest, then another, until the plating had caved in and began to split open. Before that could happen, Krok managed to jerk up a knee, thrusting it hard in Spinister's midsection. The Decepticon huffed but did not let go; his fingers loosened, just enough, just enough for Krok to take advantage as Spinister had him.

Krok pulled his neck free as he shoved his foot against Spinister's groin. His legs then wrapped around the shocked Decepticon; Krok quickly flipped over, taking Spinister with him, until he was on his back. His legs remained locked around his throat. While tight, it was not crushing; Krok wanted to immobilize his comrade, not hurt him.

Spinister tore fingers viciously into the legs, further denting and tearing metal. Krok ignored the pain; he didn't care. He finished his S.O.S to Crankcase just in time, it seemed-- But it was sort of hard to ignore the pain that came with his leg suddenly half-yanked from the knee socket, exposing glitching, sparking circuits and cutting open fuel lines. Spinister uncoiled himself and sat up, rubbed his throat; he didn't take long to recuperate or catch his breath before he was back on his feet, towering over his leader.

Krok managed a punch to Spinister's face before his arms were slammed down, trapped beneath the larger Decepticon's knees. Both hands wrapped tight around his throat, returning to familiar grooves set from earlier. Krok gasped and jerked beneath the massive weight.

"Why did you stop me!?" Spinister demanded, optics burning. He dropped forward, face to face with Krok. "Why didn't you let me kill him!?" He squeezed and shook the smaller Decepticon by the throat.

Krok stopped struggling. He switched off his optics, ordering his defense matrix into action. Re-routing the flow of energon and fuel.

Spinister's shaking increased. He squeezed again, and Krok sputtered out a gasp. "Answer me!" he screamed, his crest and forehead grinding against Krok's. " _Answer me_!"

Aside from the occasional pained noise and groan, Krok remained quiet. Unresponsive. He made no attempt to fight back, or even move. This only infuriated Spinister more and more, but it was a risk he had to take. His optics opened, pale and flashing; he met Spinister's, and oh, it was strange.

That _look_ was almost disarming.

Suddenly, Spinister's grip loosened, his own optics widening in surprise. Krok's fingers started to twitch, until they were weakly tapping the ground. Slow, but hard. It was a pattern, and one Spinister instantly recognized. He was... speaking in code. Only two words, over and over.

_Calm down._

Spinister blinked, and suddenly the anger was lifted from his mind. He looked at his hands around Krok's throat, shocked. Slowly, he released him and drew back, crawling off the smaller Decepticon. Krok hissed static, rubbed his throat. It took him a moment, but he propped up onto one elbow, staring down at Spinister watching him in awe and horror.

"I..." Spinister muttered, trailing off.

Krok grunted as he sat upright. Spinister's optics brightened at the sight of the deep impressions his fingers had left behind on Krok's throat. A low sigh, the smaller Decepticon stood; before Spinister could stop him from falling, he caught his balance.

Krok approached the confused, speechless Decepticon. He took him by the upper arm, and yanked. Too weak to pull Spinister up, but the order came across clearly. Spinister instantly stood, and the two crashed against one another. Dizzy, tired, and aching. Krok helped guide one of Spinister's arms over his shoulders, another wrapped around his waist. He leaned heavily against the larger Decepticon, having to limp mostly on one foot.

Spinister just... stared at him. Completely floored and flabbergasted.

"Le-s g-," Krok commanded, hoarsely, words sputtering with static.

The door suddenly flew open, Crankcase cocking a rifle and aiming it for Spinister's head. Before he could shoot a sedative right in the Decepticon's throat, he noticed the position the two were in. "Did I fraggin' miss out on a damn good lover's spat?" he whined, lowering the gun.

Krok smirked, then winced at the sudden jolt of pain in his throat. He looked to Spinister, who had his head bowed, ashamed He slumped against Krok.

Krok looked back to Crankcase. "We're f-n- -ow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Krok is an Action Master, and thus does not have an alt mode. I'm not sure if that was kept in MtMtE or not, but this canon assumes it was.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just my headcanon as to how these two met.

So, this was it.

This was how he was going to die.

Lying in a puddle of his own fluids, paralyzed with a huge gaping hole in his chest just next to his spark chamber, with the hot sun above baking him to a fine crisp.

All and all, Spinister was actually feeling pretty okay about it.

Sure, he wished the circumstances had been different, but... Well, on the bright side, Spinister lived a relatively damn good life. Killed a lot of people, blew a lot of stuff up, inflicted his love for violence and destruction on various alien worlds. And, you know what? Despite the fact he was slowly roasting from the heat, the sky was clear and so lovely. What a nice final image to go to. Though Spinister kind of wondered when the heat would finally reach boiling point and set fire to the gasoline and fuel pooling be--

Oh, okay. There it went. He only heard the small hiss of flames beside him before the fire gradually spread. At least it was moving around the edges of the puddle, slowly working inward. Spinister figured if the sun didn't burn him up, the fire would, but that would be okay. He couldn't feel anything, anyway. To go up in flames would actually pretty hardcore, in fact. Too bad no one was around to witness his possible radical death. Or maybe that was a good thing? Spinister's brain was slowly liquefying, he couldn't tell.

Funnily enough, his wounds were not grave or fatal. The fact he was paralyzed with no one around to help him and he was bleeding out would be the cause of death. If Spinister had mobility, he could very easily tie up the fuel pumps and use scrap metal to close the hole; save him about fifteen minutes to get to a medbay before his systems really went south. Kind of pathetic, really, knowing this could have gone a totally, more optimistic direction.

Enough to make one mad. Really, _really_ mad. Yet Spinister was not mad. He was... resigned, but accepting. He felt this was wrong, however; he should be angry, he should be pissed off. But maybe he was content with the life he had lived; he'd be dying without any regrets. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact his logic circuits were scrambled and cooking like spaghetti in his skull.

Hmm, the former sounded better and more comforting.

Spinister sighed, his dim, narrowed optics staring into the cloudless sky. Right at the sun. Was probably going to go blind soon, but that was the least of his worries right now.

Spinister prayed he could still blow stuff up in the afterlife.

Fatigue turned into exhaustion. His spark was weakening. His defense matrix was failing; it had been the only thing keeping him alive so far. The fire crackled as it slithered closer. Spinister hummed deep in his vocalizer, his throat dry and burning, and switched off his optics.

But that would be cool if he could still blow stuff up when he was dead.

The loud hiss of water meeting flame did not stir Spinister. He kept his optics closed, one leg still in the grave. It wasn't until some of the fluid hit his face did he force his eyes open. He couldn't see much, just blurs of color beneath a liquid film. A shadow, however, cut in and out of his view, and he could hear more water being poured. Smoke billowed and rose from around him; the fires were all out now.

Vulture, maybe? No. Not a vulture.

Spinister curiously watched as the shadow went still before kneeling beside him. A vague shape - a hand - moved closer before reaching inside Spinister's chest. He couldn't feel anything, but the shadow kept his hand in place on his spark chamber another ten seconds or so before drawing it back.

A low mumble. Words; the shadow was speaking. It sounded... inquisitive? But Spinister couldn't make out the words. His audiols were failing. Deft, dark fingers pawed at Spinister's optics, quickly wiping away the water and dust. He still couldn't see much, but at least he could make out more colors - purple, and red. The red was in one thin strip high on the shadow - its face. Its eyes? Was it a Decepticon?

The shadow spoke again, something quick, before waiting. Waiting for...? For a response? For his words to sink in? Didn't matter now; the shadow stood and left, and Spinister suddenly felt nervous when he could no longer see him. His optics rolled around in their sockets, trying to find the shadow. He wasn't sure if he was scared or annoyed or both.

By the one minute mark, fear subsided into paranoia. What the Hell was that? Was that a figment of his imagination? Or did someone just... come by, put out the flames, feel him up, and then... leave? That... What? Maybe it was an Autobot. Oh, Spinister wished he wasn't paralyzed and unarmed right now.

Another minute, and then the shadow was back. Spinister felt a tickle of... relief? in his spark. Didn't know why, though. He was still angry and wary. But the shadow had something in its hands, and was kneeling at his side again. Spinister heard a variety of noises follow when the shadow dipped its hands back into his chest. Hissing, groaning, twanging; he caught the edges of torn pipes being fussed and meddled with. The cough and sputter of liquid, something wet and squeaking as tubes slid together.

This lasted a good ten or so minutes before the shadow tipped something - a gas can? - into his chest wound and what? What? Was that poison? What the-- What was this bastard _putting_ in him? Spinister managed to make some sort of disapproving noise; it stopped the shadow from working to mumble something then go back to work. Was that a reassurance or was he mocking his guinea pig?

Whatever the shadow was filling him with, it took at least two full cans. When the second was emptied, the dark, red-eyed figure went back to fiddling with a few things. It... started to occur to Spinister then, that perhaps this shadow was... repairing him? Because suddenly his vitals spiked and his HUD pinged him; his tanks were full, and fresh energon was pushing through his circuits and pumps. His defense matrix whirred back to life, slow but steady.

Spinister switched off his optics, as they started to sting. They flew open the second he heard loud groaning and banging of metal. He looked down; the shadow was patching up the hole with some scrap metal. So, it _was_ fixing him.

Spinister wasn't sure how he felt about this.

The shadow was speaking again. What do you want, mysterious entity? He couldn't talk! But it seemed the shadow wasn't trying to initiate a conversation or get a reply. It was as if he were... explaining something to Spinister. Which was equally stupid, since he could only hear muffled, garbled noises. But Spinister just... pretended he understood. Then the shadow went quiet and stood; for a brief moment, panic clutched Spinister's spark. Was the shadow-person leaving him? Did this mean he would have to finish the repairs himself? Or was this some way to delay his death and increase his suffering?

If that were the case, when Spinister was dead, he swore he'd come back and haunt this little shit.

But-- Though he still couldn't feel it, Spinister watched in silence as the shadow scooped him up in his arms, lifted him up. And started... carrying him? Carrying him to where? He couldn't turn his head, couldn't see anything but this shadow-figure and the sky haloed above its head. Was this some sort of agent of Primus? A harbinger of death? A harbinger of death that eased your pain and patched you up before taking you to the great beyond? Well, that was nice of them. Though kind of pointless since he couldn't feel anything. Still, very thoughtful angel of death.

Speaking of death... Spinister was pretty sure he wasn't out of the woods yet, but he'd been pulled back from the edge, at least. Still, he was tired, so very tired. Maybe now he could rest, and maybe, just maybe, he would actually wake up again. For now, however, despite his mixed feelings about the shadow-figure, Spinister let himself slip into stasis.

\---

The afterlife sure was boring and anticlimactic. It looked just like a typical medbay. What hornswoggle horseshit.

Oh, wait - no, this wasn't the afterlife. This _was_ a typical medbay. He'd never been here before and he just now realized... He could turn his head. And feel the warmth of the medical slab beneath him. Spinister bolted upright in sudden shock, only for the world to start spinning; he grunted and fell back, nearly toppling off the bed. Managed to catch his balance and prop himself up on his elbows. The dizziness subsided the moment the doors to the medbay opened.

Spinister lunged for a weapon, or anything he could find to protect himself with. He successfully found a datapad and raised it to pitch at whomever walked through those doors.

"Those instructions helped me save your life," the figure said, stepping inside the medbay. He nodded to the 'pad in Spinister's hand.

Spinister blinked. Though he'd seen no defining details on the shadow, it was the right height, and released the same familiar EM waves as the mysterious person who saved his life. That red strip had indeed been eyes--two red optics. A masked face, no distinguishable alt mode fitted on his humanoid frame; smaller than Spinister, too. But the most important piece was the Decepticon insignia on his right shoulder.

"Your vocalizer was left intact," the Decepticon reassured, "you can talk."

Spinister stared another minute. He lowered the datapad. "... Am I dead?" he asked, finally, voice a little hoarse.

"No," the Decepticon replied. Spinister watched him closely as he gathered a small cube of energon, placed it on the edge of the slab. He scooted back; the 'con understood the uneasiness and politely stepped back a respectful distance. "It's not poisoned. I wouldn't waste resources patching you up, only to poison you later."

Spinister was not entirely convinced. But then his tank churned with sudden hunger. He was convinced enough to quickly down the cube, nearly choking when he finished. Before the Decepticon could come to his aid, he held up the datapad _and_ empty cube in warning.

The Decepticon chortled. "You're welcome," he said. Spinister just glowered. "My name is Krok. I was doing some scavenging on Amathio 2 when I stumbled upon you. Thought you were dead; I was going to harvest your parts"--and Spinister scowled--"but when I saw you were alive... Well."

"Why'd you save me?" Spinister demanded. Loyalty wasn't a fair answer.

"Because I could," Krok answered, and that... surprised Spinister a little. "Besides, I know who you are. The moment I laid optics on you. You're Spinister. You've something of a reputation." Good thing or not, Spinister felt a little proud. "And I realized, you'd be a great asset." He held out a hand. "I'm forming a little team, if you will. To help me on a quest to find my lost teammates. To get by, I scavenge parts, mostly from the dead. It's not glorious, and it's a little demeaning, but pride is so often a shallow cause of death, and I'd very much like to stay alive. At least until I find my team."

"You're makin' a team to find your team?"

"Yes. A search party, among other things," Krok said, nodding. "I could use your help, and I assume you're on your own."

Spinister grunted. "Yeah. Am now," he muttered.

"Were your teammates or comrades killed?"

"Nope," Spinister replied, "abandoned me. Well, no." He counted on his fingers. "Two dead, two abandoned me. Fifth I killed."

Krok didn't seem too concerned with the part about Spinister killing his very own teammate. Which did surprise Spinister, if this guy was all about teamwork. "I'm sure you had your reasons," he said.

"Reasons, yes. None of which are your business."

"I won't ask," Krok reassured, hands raised. "And I won't force you to stay. I'm making an offer, not an order. We're currently on board my ship - the _Weak Anthropic Principle_ , and we're about four point two days away from the nearest civilization. I can drop you off there if you so desire. It's Decepticon occupied, so you'll be welcomed."

After hearing all that, Spinister had only one thing to say: "Where's my gun?"

Krok was a little... Well, no. He knew of Spinister's reputation as he indicated, and how the mech was a little... slow. "I wasn't able to save it. Broken beyond repair. Sorry for your loss."

Spinister growled. "Get me a gun."

"I can arrange that."

And a moment of silence stretched between Krok and Spinister. They stared at each other, unblinking, both unafraid. Though Spinister was still a little suspicious, with no gun, still weak from his wounds, and having nowhere to go for apparently a few days, perhaps it was best to play along. When they arrived at this so-called Decepticon occupied planet, and Krok hadn't pissed him off, Spinister would let him live.

"Alright," Spinister said finally, and he noted the sudden spike in Krok's EM field, "I'll join your team. Whatta call yourself again?"

" _We_ are the Scavengers. It's not very creative, I know, but it fits."

"Hnn."

"You can leave the group at any time," Krok reassured. "But I'd appreciate it if you stayed."

Spinister hummed. He sighed and fingered the patch on his chest. "... Will we get to blow things up?"

Krok blinked. "... Sure," he chuckled, "I don't see why not?"

Spinister looked up at the Decepticon. "Count me in."

Krok nodded. He approached Spinister, held out a hand. Though he went tense, he let the smaller Decepticon take his shoulder. Spinister instinctively placed a hand on his shoulder as well. "Welcome to the team, Spinister," Krok said, and squeezed.

"I'm still hungry," Spinister said, and squeezed his shoulder back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mutual shoulder squeeze I made to be like a handshake derp.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tame little ficlet.

It started out as a small ache that came and went. Lasted perhaps a few seconds to a single minute then just... stopped. Maybe an hour or two hours later, it'd come back, throb a minute, disappear. The process repeated, and for at least two days. It never really concerned Krok, as he and his crew had been running low on fuel the past week, and this was perhaps just his body's way of reminding him he needed to replenish his dry systems.

Except by day three of the minor ache, and after promptly refueling, the pain increased. It lasted for nearly five minutes in duration now, and when it stopped, it returned quickly after. What was just a little tickle every now and then was getting itchy and uncomfortable. It started as a small nerve pinch at the nape of his neck; now, the pain felt more biting and hot, spanning up to the base of his cranial chamber.

Four days with this pain in Krok's neck, and it was only getting worse.

Krok had been in the middle of piloting the W.A.P when the pain struck again. As expected, throbbing and pinching. He mechanically rubbed fingers into his neck, working hard circles. For the most part, it helped, but the relief was only temporary. Though as he tried to focus on driving, the pain was distracting; Krok realized he had to do something about this, and soon. It was disturbing his concentration, and that would not do.

Krok clenched his teeth. Fingers pushed hard, almost enough to dent dermal plating. He rolled his neck back and forth along his shoulders; went back to kneading. He'd been keeping track of each episode; when they were likely to start, and how long they usually lasted. He had about one minute left of the burning ache before things settled for another twenty-three minutes, he estimated. Still, it was damn annoying, and Krok had almost wanted to rip a hole into his neck as if he could tangibly remove the pain underneath and jettison the solid object out a waste receptacle.

That minute was almost up when there was sudden, new pressure on Krok's neck.

Krok had been too busy fussing with the pain and focusing on driving that he hadn't registered the slow approaching footfalls from behind him in the captain's chair. He jumped when large fingers removed his hand from his neck, taking its place. Krok widened his optics but remained calm and seated; he instantly recognized that new inquisitive EM field.

"What are you doing?" Krok asked. He tried to look back, but a small jolt of pain forced him to sit still.

Spinister said nothing. His fingers working a physical examination. Krok allowed him to do so; though he tried to keep quiet, certain points were extremely sensitive, and each curious poke had him grumbling or softly cursing. That, at least, showed Spinister the worst spots. Though he did not stop, even at the small, pained little noises, determined to get a good, proper assessment.

"Been doin' this for a mega-cycle," Spinister mumbled. His fingers trailed down the back of Krok's neck before drawing away. "Strained nerve. Pinched pump."

Krok blinked, lifting his head a little. "Can you fix it?" he asked.

Spinister remained quiet before suddenly guffawing loudly. Krok winced, another rush of pain up his neck. "You patronizin' me, Krok?" he asked, half-serious. "Course I can fix it." He made a disappointed 'pfft', to the best of his mouth-free abilities. Spinister bent forward a little, fingers once more pressed against Krok's neck. "Simple as oil pie. Have ya all patched up in a couple kliks. Just sit still, and relax."

Krok sighed. He tried, really, but minute movements only caused flares of pain. He went stiff, arms stretched on the armrests of his chair. A second later, Spinister went to work--nothing intense, nothing surgical. A nice, deep massage would apparently do the trick. His fingers rested against the sides of Krok's neck, thumbs pushing hard circles into the sore area. Working slowly top to bottom.

At first, it hurt. Krok flinched and wiggled, only for Spinister to grunt and give a shoulder a little slap. Right, right, gotta keep still. Gotta relax. But, as Spinister continued into the massage, the pain slowly dulled into a soft heat. Then - just like a flipped switch - Krok had never felt so good in his life. His optics flickered and dimmed and he began to melt into his chair, fans humming loudly in his chest.

Then Spinister hit one spot and-- "O- _Oh_ ," Krok groaned. It was a little embarrassing, but he didn't care. One optic closed, the other twitching open; his fingers clutched and squeezed the edges of the armrests. Pushing, pushing, pushing, and it was getting harder for Krok to stay still. His shoulders shifted, knees rubbing together, head tilting almost with the rest of his body. Each time Spinister would grunt but otherwise allowed him these little squirms.

As Spinister worked the center of his neck, Krok slumped forward. Farther and farther, until Spinister pulled him back and upright. Only for Krok to once more slip slowly forward. And when he started kneading with his palm, Krok just about keened, arching his backstrut into a curve. Spinister had to chuckle at that reaction.

Krok was finding it harder and harder to stay awake, too. "... S-Stop, you need to stop," he mumbled. He weakly pushed at the divine hands. "I need to... to stay awake." He inhaled deeply, blinked a few times. "Right," he breathed, optics wide, "right, back to--to work--"

The doors to the bridge swished open and Misfire stepped inside. He looked agitated. "I'm here," he grumbled.

Krok tried to turn his head, but another flare. "Misfire?"

"Move it, boss. I get the Big Boy chair now."

Krok blinked. "Your shift doesn't start--"

"Yeah, yeah," Misfire mumbled. He headed for the chair. "But things came up," and he gave Spinister a pouty little glare, "and, well... move it."

Krok wasn't sure what was going on, but... Well, he was in no condition to be piloting the ship. Probably best Misfire take over. He stood, Spinister keeping a hand on his elbow. Misfire fell back and plopped into the chair with a big sigh.

Krok wanted to say something but Spinister was suddenly leading him out the doors and off to his quarters. Halfway down the hall: "... Did you comm Misfire to come take my place?" he asked.

Spinister shrugged.

"... Did you threaten him if he didn't?"

Another huge, exaggerated shrug. Krok sighed and shook his head, just a little. "Well..." he exvented. "Doctor's orders, I guess? Can't argue if I'm unfit for duty..."

Spinister's optics seemed to beam happily. "Right!"

Krok stared at the larger Decepticon a moment. He chuckled and said nothing more. When they arrived at his hab-suite, Spinister helped Krok stretch out on his slab along his stomach. "We ain't done yet," Spinister noted, wagging a finger.

Krok hummed into his berth. "I'm not complaining."

"Besides, I'm the only one allowed."

Krok cracked open one dim optic. "Hmm?"

"To be a pain in your neck."

It took Krok a moment, then he just laughed. "Yeah," he said, burying face into his berth again, "only you."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my best one, but eh.

The massive nebula was seemingly endless, the cloud stretching for miles in space, engulfing the entire screen even from a distance. A spiraling swirl of green, blue, and turquoise, thick and bright in the middle with tendrils wisping in spindly ribbons and lashes at its outer edges.

"Let's fire a missile into it."

Krok sighed, looked from the nebula's image to Spinister standing before the viewscreen. He was poking a finger at the center of the massive giant, optics bright and excited.

"We're not firing anything into the nebula," Krok said, firmly.

Spinister looked genuinely confused. "Why not?"

Krok had been working and traveling alongside Spinister for nearly two months now, and while he was beginning to understand his comrade wasn't the... brightest knife in the armory, it was still a little tedious having to explain basic logic and common sense to him. Still, Krok was patient, and learned fast. "Because there's no reason to," he answered a moment later, completely calm. "Besides, last time I left you on the bridge alone, you wasted four missiles in an attempt to destroy a phantom _space butterfly_."

Spinister narrowed his optics. "I never did catch that bastard..."

And the obvious reason was because it wasn't real. But Krok said nothing, his mind returning to other concerns. "Traveling through the Vermis, we save more time and fuel," he explained.

"Vermis?" Spinister echoed.

"That's the name of the nebula," Krok replied. "The Vermis Nebula. It is... Well." He looked down, hand idly groping at air, as if he was physically trying to grab onto a train of thought. The problem was not what to say, but _how_ to say it.

"It's what?"

Krok hummed, optic ridges furrowing. "It is also host to a variety of things, incl--"

" _Things_?" Spinister interjected, and suddenly went tense. Just what Krok had feared. "You know I don't like _things_."

"You've no reason to worry," Krok reassured, as if he were speaking to a young child. "The vermi are harml--"

"Vermi?"

Krok hoped he could finish a sentence when he next explained: "Yes. The vermi are small alien creatures, no larger than your fist. Little is known about them, but they are sentient, and very, very curious. And, as I was saying, completely harmless." Be basic and simple with the data. He looked to the viewscreen. "I've been through the Vermis Nebula once before. As long as you don't threaten them, there will be no problems."

"Can they get inside?" Spinister asked. He didn't sound persuaded.

"... Yes," Krok replied, deciding to leave out the details. "But I need you to not attack or fire your weapons on them, all right? There's nothing we can do to keep them from getting inside; you just have to--"

"If we fire a missile into the nebula, _then_ they won't bother us!"

Krok sighed. "No, that..." He shook his head and looked to the helm controls. "While we're in the nebula, our navigation system may suffer from minor complications due to static discharge. Lights flickering, lesser programs going on stand-by, _weapon core disabled_." That part wasn't true, but Krok felt it was worth lying about. Spinister looked disappointed. "But once we clear Vermis, everything will be in order and working properly again."

Spinister folded his arms over his chest, glared suspiciously at the nebula. "I don't like it," he grumbled.

"It's the better alternative out of the two, and you need not fret, as I said," Krok explained, managing to remain patient, if not mildly annoyed. "So just..." He met Spinister's optics, his EM field relaxing in an attempt to subdue his restless comrade. "Trust me, okay?"

Spinister just stared the smaller Decepticon down for nearly thirty seconds. Krok said nothing, remained sitting and staring back. After another ten seconds, Spinister's right optic twitched. Krok thread his fingers together and sat back. _I can do this all day if I have to_.

Finally, one minute and fifteen seconds later, Spinister gave a low chuff and irritated grumble before turning his attention back on the screen.

Krok had caught on quick that such a response was resigned acceptance. His optics brightened happily and he turned back around in his seat, digits flying over the built-in keyboard as he set in coordinates.

The _Weak Anthropic Principle_ 's engines gave a low grumble as they slowly picked up speed. "Eight seconds before penetration," Krok said, the image of the nebula growing closer and closer on the screen. "Five seconds... Three seconds... One--"

The lights on the bridge flickered before switching offline. The screen winked into static, casting everything in a ghostly white hue. Spinister had stumbled back, gun equipped in a flash.

"No no," Krok said, raising a hand to him, "put the gun down. It's okay. Everything's fine."

"I don't trust these vermi," Spinister scowled, squeezing the grip-handle of his gun tight, finger lingering at the trigger.

"I told you, they're harmless."

"You don't know that!"

"... I also told you this would be my second time going through the nebula."

"Whatever!"

Suddenly, without warning, a burst of green light appeared, floating in the middle of the bridge. Spinister gasped and turned his weapon on it. Before he could fire, Krok had tackled him onto the ground. The gun flew from Spinister's hand, across the bridge and out of reach.

"You--!" Spinister freed one arm, took Krok's neck in his hand. The smaller Decepticon choked but did not attempt to fight back.

"You'll blast a hole in the hull," Krok said, calmly, his voice a little strained. He winced as the grip tightened.

Spinister looked from Krok to the green cloud, back to Krok. _Really_ looked at him. Krok kept his hands down, remaining still. Spinister... With another quick squeeze, he released Krok, shoving him back.

Krok cleared his vocalizer, rubbing fingers along the dents in malleable plating. "Just wait a tick..." He said, looking to to the cloud. The Decepticons sat there - Spinister on edge, Krok remaining placid for the both of them.

The green cloud exploded, forming nearly a hundred individual orbs of light. They propelled themselves around the bridge on thin, tiny fins nearly invisible to the naked eye. A few went through the walls, disappearing into other parts of the ship; the majority hovered about on the bridge.

Krok almost expected Spinister to quickly leap for his gun. To his surprise and relief, the larger Decepticon was the exact opposite. Instead of going into battle mode and attacking the vermi, he sat quietly on the ground, wide, red optics glowing with fascination.

Krok repressed a chuckle. He stood, offering his comrade a hand. It took Spinister a moment to slip from his daze; he took the hand, stood to his feet and at Krok's side. He stumbled back as five of the orbs suddenly floated up to him.

"Stay calm," Krok said. Two were circling his head, another twirling upside down by his cheek. "They're just curious. They won't hurt us."

Spinister tilted his helm, watching as one flitted past his shoulder; he turned, gaze following the vermi. The orb stopped and floated back up to him; the Decepticon jerked back his head as the creature came within five inches of his face. It moved no further, and Spinister could actually see what appeared to be a single, beady yellow eye set dead center of the vermis's round body.

Spinister blinked. The orb blinked back. He inquisitively raised a finger, hesitantly drawing it close to the vermis. It moved away, obviously just as nervous. Spinister huffed; he tried reaching for the creature again, but it darted high into the air and across the bridge. He whirled around, stumbled again when three vermis suddenly ganged up on him. "Don't _do that_!" he snapped, and the trio dispersed in three directions.

"Easy now," Krok hummed. Spinister looked to him; the smaller Decepticon was practically covered in the vermi, perching on the top of his head, his shoulders, the remnant shoulders' kibble, his extended arms.

Spinister's optics widened. "Why do they let _you_ touch them?" he pouted.

"I let them make the first move," Krok said. He shrugged, one vermis flying from his right shoulder. "They're more compliant if they feel they are in charge, so to speak."

Spinister scowled. He watched one orb move in closer. "Well," he said, and huffed at the alien, sending it away, "they're _not_. I could take these glitches out with four shots, tops."

"Might be a little difficult, as they're not entirely solid. They're made of about 24% of substance; the rest is gas."

"That won't stop me," Spinister replied, so smug, "in fact, it'll make things a lot more fun."

Krok sighed. "Look." He approached Spinister, most of the vermi fleeing. "Allow me..." He reached for the larger Decepticon's hand, but went no further. After a moment's consideration and a small, grumpy noise, Krok took Spinister's hand, held it up and out. "Just leave it there. Don't move. Don't make any attempt to catch one."

Spinister's patience wore thin fast. But before he could start complaining, one vermis floated close. It hovered and rotated around Spinister's hand a few seconds-- The Decepticon almost jumped when the alien lowered itself and sat in his palm. Its tiny, nearly invisible fins resting at its sides. That anger quickly returned into pure, childlike fascination.

"See?" Krok replied, and slowly let Spinister's wrist go. "Keep it there."

Spinister obeyed his captain-- for three seconds flat. Krok gasped as Spinister suddenly clamped his large fingers around the tiny creature before cupping it in both hands. There was soft, rapid fluttering, but he could barely feel it. Spinister peered through a slit in his fingers at his prisoner inside; it was jumping about, panicked, trying to free itself.

"Let it go," Krok ordered. It seemed the other vermi had not noticed, focused on other things.

"Doesn't it have some sort of defense mechanism?" Spinister asked. He shook the the vermis in his hands like a die. "C'mon. Bite me or somethin'!"

Krok angrily and firmly took Spinister's wrist. "Let it go, before the others realize what you're doing and turn on us," he ordered.

Spinister chortled. "But they can't do nothin', right?"

"Just let it go."

Spinister engaged in another quiet defiant staring contest with the smaller Decepticon. As always, he surrendered first; sighing, he opened his hands, and the vermis, now a paler shade of green, darted upward. It did not leave, however, rather remained hovering a safe distance above Spinister's head.

A second later, it threw itself against the side of the Decepticon's helm, bouncing off, only to full-body smack him again.

"Hey!" Spinister growled, clawing at the alien. It retreated higher to safety. "Come down here, ya fraggin' coward! I will _eat you_!"

Krok rolled his optics, ten vermis resting on his folded arms. He looked to the controls. "One klik before we exit the nebula," he stated. "Let's try to keep this klik death-free."

Spinister, however, was waving a pipe at the offended vermis, jumping up and down, trying to bash in the little fucker's head.

Before Krok could try wrestling the pipe from his hand - and ask where the _Hell_ he got that - the vermi flew from off his chassis, joining the others as they regrouped into a giant ball in the middle of the bridge. Spinister watched his vermis join the rest. "What are they doin'?" he grumbled, lowering the pipe.

"Leaving," Krok said, relaxing a little. "If I remember correctly, they... did something before they left. I surmised it was some show of gratitude, but after what you did--"

The vermi collected into a cloud again, only to expand and twist, until they formed a giant, spinning spiral, mimicking the image of their nebula home. Some of the vermi shimmered bright white and fluorescent green. The Decepticons watched the display in awe.

The spiral tightened and tightened until it was almost a complete ball again. With a crackle, a small cube popped from its center, hitting and bouncing on the floor before going still. The cloud gave one final grateful shimmer then disappeared in the blink of an eye. Leaving nothing behind but the tiny cube.

The ship's engines hummed loudly again as light returned to the bridge, the screen flickering online to show open space once more. Krok went to the controls, ran a diagnostic scan just in case.

Spinister, however, was fascinated by the present the vermi left. He squatted and picked it up, unafraid of any sort of repercussion. Could be a bomb, but he didn't care. He turned the cube in his fingers; it glittered every time the light caught its surface. Spinister held it up, tilted his head back, one optic narrowing as he studied the object.

"Yeah," he said, looking to Krok, "I got nothin'."

Krok strolled up alongside him. Plucked the cube from Spinister's fingers. "I do know what this is, as a matter of fact," he explained. "A discharge of energy from the vermi cloud solidified. They did this previously during my last visit. My crew and I believe it is some sort of gift. Another way of thanking us for letting them meddle around in our ship."

Spinister blinked. "What's it do?"

"Nothing," Krok said, "this is it." He held the cube out to Spinister. "Take it. It's yours now."

Spinister looked slightly alarmed. He pointed to his face, and Krok nodded. Slowly, he took the cube, rolled it back and forth in his palms. His optics brightened, amused.

Krok returned to the controls. Besides having no desire to keep the cube, he had other reasons for giving it to Spinister. A sort of reward for good behavior... mostly. And, as evident by Spinister now sitting on the floor beside him, bouncing the cube up and down, back and forth between his hands--it would keep him entertained for at least an hour.

... And, well. Maybe watching Spinister play the cube was a little entertaining in itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still going with the idea Krok is an Action Master with no alt mode, but methinks that's not true of MtMtE Krok. Maybe.


	7. Chapter 7

"I’m dying."

Spinister chortled, resting his chin on Krok’s shoulder, holding the smaller Decepticon in his lap. “Was wonderin’ where all that warm energon was comin’ from," he said.

Krok smirked, tiredly. A pause. “I’m dying, right?"

Spinister wrapped his arms tighter around Krok’s hips. Didn’t flinch as his fingers brushed with wires and pumps where the rest of Krok’s body should be. He dimmed his optics and huffed, as if a little annoyed, “Yeah."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When in a terrible, miserable mood...

"Hey."

The first hit was dull. The second, just a little sharper.

“ _Hey_!"

Now, the third? That hurt.

Before Spinister could slap him upside the face again, Krok’s optics flickered online. Spinister noted the pallor shade.

"Wake up, you dummy," Spinister hissed. Krok blinked weakly. He didn’t bother to ask what happened, and… why they were sitting in the middle of a ring of flames and carnage. He remembered well enough - they’d been in a fight. Autobots. Too many to take on; too powerful for their little team. He remembered the attempt to dodge when he was met by a hail of blasts—

That would explain why he couldn’t feel his body. And the fact he was leaking everywhere. “We gotta get back to the ship," Spinister said. Though Spinister did explain why Krok was patched up, a little. The medic could only do so much with what he had - which was nothing. It was amazing the things he _could_ do, even with nothing. Still, the damage was extensive, and…

Krok didn’t say anything. He conserved the tattered remains of his energy.

"Waitin’ on us," Spinister continued muttering. He grunted as he hefted the mangled Decepticon up, placing him against his chest. “Hold on. Can ya hold on? Hold on."  
  
Krok mechanically wrapped his arms around Spinister’s hips. Too weak, but enough to stay put. He dropped his face against his chest and just… relaxed, to the best of his abilities. Which wasn’t hard, given he couldn’t feel much of anything.

Spinister slipped one hand beneath him, the other cradling his back. He ignored the energon and fuel pouring sluggishly between his and Krok’s chest. No time to think. Thinking wasn’t what he did best anyway. “Hup hup," Spinister grunted and, curling forward and over the smaller ‘con, went charging through the walls of flames.

Not too bad. Made it through without any new injuries. Krok seemed fine - well, you know. He glanced back at the fires once, watched as they consumed the remains of the Autobot camp until everything collapsed into soot and cinders. With a huff, he turned and immediately took off into the trees, before the forest went up in flames, too.

Spinister wasn’t without his own injuries. Busted, melted plating, torn, shredded armor, a chunk of his back missing, and a huge gash across his masked face. Nonetheless, he ignored the pain shooting through his backstrut as he forced himself to move way too fast. Half-way through the forest, trudging in thick mud, ripping through stubborn thistle brushes, and almost tripping over rotten collapsed logs - still going strong.

"Said they’re waitin’. Said they’re close by," Spinister reassured Krok. Huffed and puffed, keeping his gaze forward. God, did this forest ever fucking end? “Won’t leave without us. Can’t afford to lose us, they said." He chortled.

Krok had been quiet through the trip when he suddenly sighed against Spinister’s shoulder. “M-Medic… T-Too valu… able…" he croaked.

"Need a leader," Spinister insisted. “None of ‘em can lead for scrap. I wouldn’t listen to ‘em anyway."

A very weak chuckle. “You… then?"

"Hell no," Spinister grunted. Paused. "… Maybe." He shook his head and tightened his arms around Krok. “Like you better. You’re better at the job. Too much thinkin’. Too many responsibilities." He blanched at the very idea.

Krok’s fingers barely caressed Spinister’s hip, in lieu of a comforting back pat. “You’ll do… fine…" he breathed.

"You, too."

Krok smirked. “Ye… ah." His body rose and fell; deep inhale and exhale.

"You’re the one who made this stupid team," Spinister said. He grunted as he nearly tripped over another damn log. “You gotta keep it together." He went a moment or two without talking, optics narrowed. “You annoy me the least, anyway. Misfire talks too much, Fulcrum whines too much, Crankcase complains too much. And then there’s that _stupid_ Autobot in the brig…"

Spinister scowled. “M’not gonna put up with one of _them_ as leader. Which is why you gotta stay. ‘Cause you’re the only one qualified." He shrugged. “Plus, you made this team, remember? Your responsibility to keep it together."

A minute later, Spinister angrily and loudly cursed. “When the Hell does this fraggin’ forest end!?" he snarled. He picked up the pace, though his arms were aching, and his wounds were catching up to him. But as if something went right today, he finally reached the end, emerging from the trees into a field of dirt. He looked up, and saw the ship a few yards ahead. “Oy. They stayed. I didn’t think they were gonna stay." He was only half-surprised, honestly.

"But they need a medic," Spinister continued rambling. He grunted as he hefted Krok up a little more, the arms falling loose from his hips. “And you. ‘Cause you gotta keep us together. And keep me from shooting them, right? You said that to me once. You think I forgot, didn’t you?" His arm snaked tightly around Krok’s hips as the weight against his chest increased.

Spinister sighed as he reached the top of the hill. Crankcase was at the bay door, flagging him over. “I see you and the damn ship, you dumb aft!" he snapped back, but knew Crankcase couldn’t hear him. He bowed his head and huffed against the side of Krok’s helm. “All most there, all moooost there. Half-way there, Primus, you’re heavy."

Two minutes later, and Spinister finally stumbled to a halt. Crankcase rushed over to help. He stopped the moment he laid hands on Krok.

Spinister took a moment to just breathe, his knees shaking. Crankcase stared at Krok a few seconds, slowly looked up to meet Spinister’s gaze.

"… You know he’s—"

"Yeah," Spinister said, and limped into the ship. He kept Krok in his arms, against his chest. “‘Bout fifteen kliks now." He went quiet then. “But," he continued, softly, and Crankcase didn’t like how… empty he sounded, “we need the parts."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS A MANLY FICLET OF MANLY MEN DOING MANLY THINGS.

Good _Lord_ , these starmaps were outdated.

Krok squinted as he studied the map, lines and notes drawn across the image of the three-dimensional galaxy. Connecting planets, winding around them, pointing out certain constellations and important, key locations. It looked to have been a very tedious job, and it was quite detailed. Only problem was the fact it was ten centuries old, and the galaxy had changed quite a bit since the Decepticons who conquered this place went through.

Yet Krok was determined to figure something out. Even if he had to re-write the whole damn thing. This place was important, and its planets were rich with resources and energon. Or so this map claimed. But ten centuries and a whole buttload of battles taking place on each of the planets… Krok sighed and checked out another route.

On the bright side, going through this galaxy was a good short cut. So win-win situation. This wasn’t the first time he had to work with—

Focused on his work, Krok didn’t hear the door to his room open. Didn’t hear the footfalls approaching. Was only vaguely aware the slab was shaking a little. It wasn’t the noises that distracted him from the task at hand but suddenly Spinister forcing himself between his legs.

Krok jumped and threw his arms open before the bigger Decepticon could knock the map from his hands.

"Spinister, what—" Krok jumped again when Spinister just planted his face against his shoulder and started nuzzling. He could hear a familiar click as Spinister’s maskplate slipped aside, and warm lips were suddenly pressed against his neck.

"No, I can’t— Spinister, not right now," Krok protested, free hand gently pushing at his chest.

Spinister just continued kissing up along his neck, back down his shoulder. Hands wrapped around Krok’s smaller hips, but not too tight.

"I’m working," Krok said, playfully swatting Spinister’s back with the ‘pad. “We can’t do this. Not right now."

But, alas, Spinister was not listening. He nudged his face against throat and jawline, forcing Krok to tilt his head. “N-No, no," Krok scowled, wiggling, “stop. I have to do this. You—"

Spinister dropped his head, gently blowing into a seam along Krok’s chest.

Krok started to laugh before quickly silencing himself, red optics widening. “No, don’t do that," he grumbled. God, it was embarrassing. No one need know he was kind of ticklish there. _No one_. But then Spinister was puffing into that seam again and Krok was really, really trying not to laugh. Just… shiver a little. "Okay, okay, enough," Krok insisted. He tugged at the Decepticon’s hands around his hips. “C’mon." Gently pat-pat the large fingers. “Stop."

Krok was starting to think his words were falling on deaf ears. Possibly, just maybe, Spinister even switched his audiols off. Krok would not be surprised. But then again, Spinister had told him a while back he “liked the sounds he made". Krok had literally gotten up and stood in a corner, he was flustered and embarrassed and just had no idea what else to do but he couldn’t run away so this would do.

Yeah, it was not his finest moment, nor was it the best strategy he ever came up with.

For a moment, Krok had been lost in that memory, and could feel that shame return in the form of heat in his cheeks and optics. But when Spinister was suddenly now kissing his midsection, that’s when Krok popped back into reality. “H-Hey now, come on, I’m not kidding," he scowled and, once more, gently thwapped Spinister upside the head.

Spinister juuuust kept going, and now Krok was getting a little annoyed. He pushed Spinister’s shoulders, harder this time. “No, seriously, you need—" But now? Now the bastard was kissing his right hip, moving his hand down to cup a thigh.

"I’m not going to get any work done, you know that, right?"

Spinister just dragged his lips to the left hip. Krok sighed, optics half-lidded. He slouched and just… slowly accepted his fate. And it wasn’t so bad, and it wasn’t like Krok would usually mind, but not when he was in the middle of work. Not when he was—

“ _Haha_!" Krok burst out in a cackle at the ticklish, tingling sensation in his hip. He instantly shut up, optics widening. He… did not expect that. And by the way Spinister sat up half-way to blink at him in surprise, nor did his friend.

"I…" Krok was so confused. He looked to his lap. “What did you… do…?"

Spinister tilted his helm. He bowed his head and kissed the seam on his left hip above thigh and—

Krok choked on his laughter and shock.

Spinister looked up, grinning like the cat who caught the canary and got the cream, too.

No. _No no no_. This wasn’t fair. He wasn’t suppose to be ticklish. Anywhere. He shouldn’t be ticklish in that seam along his chest, and he shouldn’t be—  
  
"Don’t—Why are you looking at me like—?"

With an ‘oomph’, Krok’s back hit the slab, arms thrown in the air and datapad slipping free. He stared up at the ceiling, optics still wide and blinking. What just— What was— Spinister forced his legs to remain open as he bowed and continued kissing that ticklish hip seam. More than kiss - blow against it, and was that—was that _tongue_ —

Oh, no. And Krok couldn’t yell, couldn’t order Spinister off, because he was too busy laughing. His entire body shook and wiggled, hands weakly pushing at the top of Spinister’s head.

"St-stop! Stop it!" he panted in between cackles. He rocked his hips, side to side, but was ultimately held in place and under the mercy of Spinister, that big jerk.  
  
At this point, it was best to just surrender. Though he did not fight, Krok kept his hands on Spinister’s helm, fingers gripping the prongs of his chevron tightly. He just—laughed. And laughed. And part of his mind told him to shut up, because this was _so embarrassing_ and unbecoming of a man in his position, but the other half was having way too much fun. Coolant pricked the edges of his squinted optics, head thrown back with mad, but very very pleasant guffawing.

This was totally unfair.


End file.
